


against the setting sun

by kytaen



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Mild Angst, Post-High School, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kytaen/pseuds/kytaen
Summary: He leaves Kageyama's side after high school, and it doesn't take long for Kageyama to notice the ache left behind, the empty spot beside him growing colder, the net between them growing taller. And with each sunset, it gets harder to go back to what it used to be.But perhaps this time, it'll be different.(In which Kageyama loses, falls down, and is found again.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> song rec to fit with this fic is « oblivion » by bastille! give it a [listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF-_H54mydE&noredirect=1).

It's 8:30 PM and the sun is setting—layer by layer, an amalgamation of blood-red and sun-streaked sky dripping into an endless black canvas.

You watch his back move along the dwindling road. His bicycle squeaks with each revolution, his shoes pick up dust and pebbles when he lifts his feet. Somewhere, along that road, he'll look back longingly and not be able to see the rooftops of the school anymore.

A lump from your heart lodges into your throat. You hate the flavor it burns on your palate, a sickly sweet ache of times gone by. So when your mouth opens, your throat clenches, and you swallow it back down, its acrid intensity hitching each breath you take.

You are aware that bit by bit, time is slipping out of your hands, just like the sun's grasp on daylight.

No words come. 

.

Your last words to him are "Don't think you can ever come close to beating me even though we're parting ways."

His last words to you are "Watch me."

It's as if saying anything else would break the status quo.

_For old times sake,_ you think. And it really was, for the sky is as red as the day you met him.

.

Across the net, those faces are hardened with the sweat and tears broiling in the air, left behind by the previous owners of the court. 

It's been a whole year since you feel his aura, and yet it's here, now; among those faces one shines through, and your brow furrows on instinct, on the strangeness of it all—

He's as short as you last saw him. But with a year's passing comes a growth in confidence, reflected as a sharp glint in his eyes, and a growth in skill, which the battered bruises lacing his arms further exemplify. He sees you, and suddenly the court is submerged in a chill you haven't experienced in your years of playing, and the circle of your vision implodes, as if the gym has been replaced by a narrow tunnel.

_I'm here,_  it's like he's telepathically broadcasting.

_Not here for me,_  your brain fires back, and your heart, ever rebelling your mind, recedes in a wilt.

There is no meaning once the game begins, however. You're leading a team, after all, and so is he. The past doesn't matter anymore, because you've gotten used to having the space beside you occupied by someone else.

And it's mirrored on the other side, within a sandy-haired setter who flashes a cocky grin at you when your eyes narrow. He's dangerous—crafty, as if he's examining you with pinpoint accuracy and have decided you don't measure up to what your whole high school career had amounted to. You return his expression with a glare; it only empowers his motives.

_You've been replaced,_  is what he's trying to say.

The ball misses your fingers and slips away from the libero's grasp.

_I don't care,_  but you do.

When the setter on the other side tosses the ball, perfectly concerted, and Hinata responds, you hate the fact that you're as amazed as the rest of the audience. Your diving receive isn't as flexible as you warranted, and another point is lost in your hands.

Your elbows lock up and jam as you stare out, past the mesh net, to the grin on the other setter's face, to the smile reflected on Hinata's own. Sweat drips down your brow, hot and stinging.

_I'm his setter,_  you want to say. _I'm supposed to be tossing for him._

You know you don't have the right to speak.

.

You meet him in the hallway after the break. Only two sets were played, and although you were better, although you were stronger, his team took the game with two points in the lead.

He's ecstatic, and rightfully so—it took him five years to beat you; even if it was just one game it reigned with a significance only he understands.

Your eyes meet; his are red-rimmed.

"I did it," he says, out of breath. His eyes sparkle. "I beat you."

"Don't take it to heart," you draw out, surly. Lip jutted in a displeased grimace. "It was only one game."

The two of you reside in silence. Something tugs at your mouth, but it's not strong enough to battle a visceral, inward pull of your mind telling your lips to stand still, a mechanism you've automatically developed to keep your pride intact.

You've managed to say nothing at the most critical of times, and wrong words every other time since. And a gut feeling tells you, _this isn't the time_.

So instead, you tell your mind to wait. It can wait. It will test your limited patience and strain the string of daily thoughts running through your brain, but it can wait.

He initiates the conversation first, determined to prevent silence from relapsing, it seems. He tells of how lucky you are for attending an university so prestigious, while he stayed behind in the Miyagi prefecture. He talks about his friends, he talks about the gym ("There's so many gyms Kageyama, much more than Karasuno, and it's so _large_  and the lights are so _bright_  and—"), and finally, he mentions that sandy-haired setter with spiked hair and an equally eccentric personality.

You fire back on his bold advances ("Luckily, this is only a practice match. We'll beat you guys at Interhigh."). You go into a spur of descriptions about your own university residence, campus, gyms, and its volleyball team, in great detail each. And the more you talk, you begin to realize the net between you and him has grown taller, and his back more distant.

When the time comes for you to part ways, out of all the things you have said you didn't bring up the words that mattered most.

Just like you've never acknowledged just how much he mattered to you, until he's no longer here.

.

Waiting for the court to be cleared at the official match, you see him from the sideline view you occupy, his team following short after.

You won't be playing him for a long while. Really, you won't even see him if he loses.

You hope he loses.

(And yet, as the score nears 25 you find yourself at the edge of your seat.)

From your point of view, it's painstakingly clear how his body moves in accordance with the ball, ready to shoot down the spike only Hinata knows how. As he snaps his wrist, the angle changes; at a breakneck speed the volleyball meets its designated spot and the scoreboard number changes.

_Watch me,_  it's like he's mouthing out, in silent display.

_I'm watching,_  you answer; even though he doesn't know that, it doesn't hurt to try.

.

" _What if I really do become the best in the world? You'll never be able to beat me then."_

_"Then I have no choice but to join you, right?"_

Five years of post-graduation wisdom is under your belt, though it's not like you grew that much in terms of height nor social prowess. That had blossomed the most the year you'd left, as you left the nest of high school seeking out new glories, new challenges, bounding to new heights. Any large steps of improvement dwindled thereafter.

You hoped he wouldn't be present at the reunion, but the stars have never blessed you with an ironclad fate; you've known this throughout your whole life and yet you wish—you wish hard and tight with a strength and persistence you would never understand five years ago you had within.

But oh how that aura, that warmth, that telltale sign announcing his presence, imbue even a throng of people, surpassing the heat, tugging at attentions like a fishhook. And you hate it when you get caught up in the fishing line as well, you hate that you spot him first in the crowd, you hate the shiver in your bones and the heat in your cheeks and _everything_ about him screams a warning sign, one your eyes still aren't attuned to, are blinded at—

Except,

(There is the click of a shutter interrupting bated breaths, and then the chatter starts up again. Hinata's back is slapped out of form as they all approach him with dazzling smiles and congratulatory words. His orange tufts of hair slips out of view.)

You hate the words strung between you and him even more.

When your hands become clammy at your sides and your vision blurs, riddled with fuzzy black patches, you head outside. Some fresh air will do you good, and so will escaping the mass of old classmates working up a sea of voices enough to drown any other external sound. You've always been an introvert at heart; that had never changed despite gaining a couple of close acquaintances one could call friends during your first year at university.

Taking a break from socialization is normal.

Having someone approach you when you take a break isn't.

.

It's 8:30 PM and you're standing on that road again, the sun taking a dip into the night as black as a crow's wing.

"You saw me in there, didn't you?"

So it'd come to this. You know it'd come sooner or later.

He's wearing a strained complexion, unbefitting of his face. He talks as if there is a great calm that has put out the usual fire roaring within his ribcage: no sudden exchanges, no fluctuation, no attempt to fuel fire nor start an argument, only a stagnant sea's image cast upon the gravel, reaching all the way to the parking lot a kilometre off.

"So what?" And it's begrudgingly simple to stay on course, saying things like you always say whenever he's the one you're facing.

Maybe you're tired of the usual, or maybe you no longer want to take the escape route, because your voice grows softer when his does, too—softer than you're used to.

"Nothing," he answers, kicking a pebble with his off-brand sneakers. The stone rattles when it hits the others, then silences as it tumbles through shoots of grass.

And then, it happens.

It's not like you're at all surprised by the suddenness; more so you're struck with how characteristically _him_  this move was, when you feel the firm leather of a volleyball between your palms.

You find yourself searching his face for a reason, though you quickly realize, you don't need one. It's exceedingly obvious.

Your wrists rotate even before he says, "Toss to me again, Kageyama." The movement feels right there with the stars, in tune with the beats of the universe. Heartachingly familiar, yet strange, because it feels like nothing has changed.

(But, five years have changed even the most unchangeable of people.)

He receives every ball you throw at him. The way his eyes flick in odd directions, the way he's poised, the way his feet bite into the air as he scrambles—no, wakefully darts—for the receive, they are proof of the work gone into fine-tuning, honing his skills. You transition into jump serves and unreasonable tosses, your mind a slurry of fallen pieces and messed-up cognitive processes trying to take your body back from the intensity raging in your arms, a blur of red adrenaline—

He'd never been able to get that before, the jump serve you launched at him on day one. In the gym, where he'd interrupted your serve when he'd burst through the door.

When he'd said "Watch me" in passing, was this what he'd meant?

He's stripping the normality of even simple play like rallies between them. You feel like you're getting left behind for the second time of your life, and it had to be by _him_  this time around.

When you left him behind in your wake, you expected him to follow. Is he telling you to do the same now?

You manage to get an edge over him, and leaves fall as the ball lodges between the crook of a tree. He bends down to pick up a stick to retrieve the ball, no reaction apparent on his face.

"I've had enough." And it surprises you that the voice echoing is in fact your own.

"We've only played for five minutes." Hinata squints, dropping the tree branch. "What are you, tired already?" 

His eyes are creasing with confusion, and just a hint of concern. You know that even if you try to explain, you won't be able to.

"More like—" _I'm not getting through you at all,_  —"the... the..."

Your shadow grows taller upon the grass.

"The sun's setting."

.

Pushing the sun away, the night lays its claim on its territory. The moon carves an opening into the dark, competing with the sun with its lustre, its polished entrance. It bathes everything in a soft glow.

The sun is setting, the sun is setting, the _sun is setting_ ; in one blink and he'll be gone, only a shadow left in his place, just like last time.

"It's 9:25 already? Shoot, I'll be late. I'd better get going then." Hinata retrieves the volleyball and picks up his bag propped up on the tree trunk. "I guess I'll see you later?"

Just when is "later"?

"You have... you have something to do?" You only realize how stupid of a question that must have been after you say it out loud. Are you starting to stutter? Is this what insanity does to you?

"In ten minutes," he shouts, running towards his bike.

"Then why'd you have a freaking rally with me then?"

It's always been like this. Just when you think you understand him, he surprises you out of the blue with something unexpected.

"That practice match... didn't count. I wanted to beat you one on one."

Something drops in your chest. And beside you, the space gets colder still. 

"With the whole of my ability, I wanted to show the world how far I've come."

He stood by your side when you were alone.

"You asked me even if it took twenty years to beat you, would I still try, didn't you?"

He challenged you in ways you couldn't have imagined.

"I got tired of waiting."

He accepted you long before you accepted yourself.

"I'm almost there, aren't I, Kageyama? Close enough to stand on the podium with you?"

He left you to fend for yourself, but didn't he come back? Even if it was just for the reunion.

For once, you are grateful you've been born with long legs, for a reason other than volleyball. Hinata squeezes the brakes, and turns around, the last drops of sunlight glowing off his eyes.

And in the backdrop of a red sea made aerial, you taste the words on the tip of your tongue, and it bursts forward with startling conviction, mixed with an effervescent heat in your throat—

(But only for this moment, even for a moment, he's _here._ )

"Thank you," you choke out. And for good measure, you repeat yourself, of the words that came late into the world but neither untimely just the same. "Thank you, you dumbass, for everything."

Maybe, just like him, you got tired of waiting.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for reading! reviews/kudos are always welcome and appreciated.
> 
> keep in touch on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/kytaens) for sneak peeks of new works!
> 
> have a lovely day, — kyt


End file.
